


The Starks Are Very Smart

by EmperorNorton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack, Fix-It of Sorts, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-01-25 15:59:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21358870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmperorNorton/pseuds/EmperorNorton
Summary: A retelling of Game of Thrones/ASOIAF with the change of the Starks being stupid. As in, pants-on-head levels of dumb. And how stupid Starks could make for a better world...
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Scenes from a Happy Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies are for the weak.

**SCENES FROM A HAPPY CHILDHOOD**

_i. Nurture and Sustenance_

Though to be polite, they called Theon Grayjoy a ward, he knew that his true purpose in Winterfell was that of a hostage. For the most part, surrounded by the younger Stark children, Theon mostly found the best description of his position as babysitter.

“The-on,” Theon said, waving his right hand. Then, he passed his left hand over it—fingers wiggling all the while—and palmed his right thumb. “The-off!” he said with pizazz, presenting his visually thumbless right hand. Then, to reward the appreciative noises from his audience, he repeated the wiggling and stuck his right thumb out again with a triumphant, “The-on!”

Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell, applauded enthusiastically. “Good show, Theon! I love your pirate magic! I can’t wait until I become a man of five and ten years, and can tell Father about how you can create gold from nothing. Winterfell will be rich!”

With a fond smile, Theon slipped a coin from a pocket and kept it carefully tucked between thumb and palm, then pretended to pull it out from Robb’s hair. He presented the coin to Robb. “Consider this an early gift for when you turn five and ten.”

“I shall, but you still have plenty of time before I turn five and ten to also get a gift for me on the day of. After all, my nameday is still months away!” Robb said as he started walking, leading the two of them into the great hall to break their fast.

Theon ruffled Robb’s dark red curls as they walked. “Tis true, you won’t be four and ten forever!”

Once they entered the building, a look most canny and sly crossed Robb’s face. “You’d better watch out,” he said. “One of these days, I’m going to show you a magic trick of my own.”

“I’m sure it won’t top The-on,” Theon said, flaunting his thumb, before hiding it and continuing, “The-off.”

As the boys approached the family table, Robb dropped behind Theon, shouted, “The-off!” and yanked the older boy’s trousers down to his ankles.

There was a clatter of dropped utensils and knocked over mugs as the room round to a halt, staring at Theon in shock.

Heedless of the stunned reactions, Robb triumphantly shouted, “The-on!” as he yanked Theon’s pants back up.

Theon sputtered, made a few angry swearing noises, and took off after the now running Robb, vowing painful vengeance. Three steps into the chase though, Theon’s pants—no longer held up by his now ruined belt—fell past his knees, tripping him. He stumbled and fell to the floor, where he slid so that all might see his butt down to its butt kraken. Er, butt crack.

Catelyn gasped and covered young Rickon’s eyes. “Ned! Do something!” she shouted, before fussing over Rickon, worried the excitement would inflame his affliction.

Lord Ned of Winterfell looked over the scene of chaos in his great hall, as Theon rose again and—holding his pants up with one hand started pursuing Robb again, and the two boys knocked over servants of all ages, spilling more food than the Starks had ever consumed in a single breakfast, ruining enough drink that should have quenched the entire castle staff.

The stately, lordly lord pulled himself to his feet. His face turned red with disgust and he bellowed, in his most lordly bellow, “HONOR!” Then, he spun on a heel and left the room, a room left silent and quaking in his wake.

The silence was finally broken by Sansa chirping. “Father is most correct. You have behaved without honor.” She sniffed, and with a quick curtsy to her mother, dismissed herself just in time to not get hit by a large drip of porridge from a candle-holding chandelier hanging above the head table. She always was the clever one.

_ii. The Clever One_

Sansa Stark deftly twisted thread and twirled her needles as she carefully embroidered small animal sigils around the border of a handkerchief. Her motions were both graceful and mechanical, automatic and effortless, as they had to be. After all, her sewing was but a distraction so that her more important work could be done.

Sansa’s scheming.

Pretending to be listening to the Septa’s lessons, Sansa carefully watched Arya out of the corner of her eye. Arya had an unattractive, scrunched up expression that meant only one thing: she was becoming frustrated enough with sewing that she was starting to pay attention to the older woman. Starting to listen.

Sansa couldn’t allow it.

After fluffing her skirt, Sansa yawned, knowing that once one person yawned it was impossible for all not to follow. And when the rest of the ladies yawned—Arya included, though the younger Stark girl always accompanied her yawns with an unladylike stretch—Sansa’s delicate foot in her delicate boot stretched out from under her delicate skirts, and gave the closest leg of Arya’s chair a ladylike kick.

Of course, the kick was ladylike. Sansa was a lady, therefore anything she did was ladylike by definition.

The chair leg buckled, sending Arya crashing to the floor in a graceless heap.

Sansa fretted with her skirt, so as to hide the motion of her newly retracted leg, and lectured. “Arya! How many times has mother told you not to lean back in your seat, and yet you’ve gone and ruined another chair! If you can’t be civilized like the rest of us, you need to leave!”

“My dear Sansa,” the Septa said, “I’ve already anticipated this happening and have a spare chair stashed—”

“And you’re not even apologizing for this ghastly disturbance?” Sansa shrieked over the Septa’s offered solution.

When Arya started to screech back in her own defense, Sansa made sure to always be louder, and then once the shrill whistling cacophony reached its crescendo, she pulled out her trump card.

Sansa aimed her big, tearful blue eyes at the Septa.

Arya was dismissed, dashing out of the room quickly so the Septa couldn’t take it back.

Sansa relaxed back into her chair in relief, and begged the Septa to continue their lessons on the faith and culture of the south. Sansa listened carefully, memorizing everything by heart.

Once upon a time, the elder Stark girl reveled in her fair features and gloried in her fiery hair. That was until she overheard something she was never meant to. Arya had complained to her father about Jeyne and Sansa calling her horseface, and what their father said shook Sansa to the core.

Ned said that Arya was the image of his sister Lyanna, a girl who blossomed into such a legendary beauty that dynasties crumbled and the kingdoms were tossed into war as her admirers competed for her favor.

And then, Sansa understood. Sansa might be pretty enough now, but Arya would one day be the true beauty. And, if Sansa couldn’t be the pretty Stark sister, there was no way she’d let Arya also get to be the smart sister. Sansa determined that no matter what, she would be known as the smart Stark. And if part of that meant she needed to chase her sister away from their shared education in order for Sansa to get a leg up, well, that’s just the price of beauty.

Robb was the outgoing heir. Bran the valiant one. Arya the beauty. Rickon the… special one with a tragic and mysterious infliction. And Sansa, the clever one.

Sansa was suddenly jerked into awareness that, while lost in thought, she’d dropped her handkerchief and had accidentally sewed tiny, delicate, beautiful direwolf stitches through both layers of her skirts, closing up her dress in the middle between her legs in a warped parody of pants.

_iii. Family Pets_

“Father, I’m having trouble training my direwolf,” Bran said.

“Son, you remember what I said about what would happen…” Ned cut himself off as he saw his young son’s face fall. He sighed. “Tell me what’s going on and I’ll see what I can do, but do not tell your siblings that I helped you.”

“I’ve tried getting him to use the privy. I’ve borrowed liter boxes from the stables’ barn cats. It just isn’t working!”

Ned scratched his chin. “Why don’t you just let him out in the woods with the other wolves for his needs?”

“I could, I suppose,” Bran said. “But I figured since you toilet trained Jon that means it’s possible to train a pet to urinate and defecate like a people.”

“But Jon’s not a pet?” Ned asked.

“Yes, he is,” Bran insisted. “Mother doesn’t want him eating at the table or sleeping in the house. Mother said the exact same thing every time we brought a cat in the keep, and it’s exactly what she said when we first got our wolves. Ergo, Jon is a pet.”

Ned rubbed his chin where he’d previously scratched it too hard. “I suppose your logic is impeccable. Hm. For all these years, Jon’s been a pet and I never realized it. Still, though, there’s no comparison between Jon and a direwolf. One is a special part of our family and legacy, highly intelligent with a special connection to us, and the other is, well, Jon. We can’t expect a direwolf to be as subservient as Jon.”

“What about Rickon, then?” Bran asked. “He’s a werewolf, but you potty trained him successfully!”

“Did we though?” Ned asked.

“Father!” Bran pressed.

Ned looked left and right and, seeing no one who would help him escape the conversation, shouted, “Honor!” and then fled the room.

_iv. Dark Wings, Dark Ink_

Maester Luwin was already waiting in Ned’s solar when the lord and lady of Winterfell arrived.

“Maester Luwin, what brings you here?” Ned asked.

“Were the boys being unruly again?” Cat asked, as it was a common reason for the Maester to need somewhere to hide out. “Using you to lure one another into traps. Oh, how those teenage boys love to maester-bait.”

Luwin bit back a sharp remark. “No, my lady, I come bringing some newly arrived letters.”

“Dark wings, dark words,” Cat said sagely.

“What does that mean?” her husband asked.

She floundered for a moment, as though she’d never really thought of it, before saying in a knowing voice, “The raven’s wings are dark, and if the ink on the letters is too light then we shant be able to read it. Therefore, it’s only logical to deduce that the words that are written are dark!” She gave a triumphant grin.

“Oh, Cat! You’re the cleverest woman I know!” Ned said and he started to show her affection, from his lordly tongue to her clever one.

Luwin cleared his throat desperately. Once the lord and lady acknowledged his presence again, he presented them with the two letters.

The first was from the king, telling the sad fate of Lord Arryn, and of the royal procession heading to Winterfell. The second was from Cat’s sister Lysa, warning of Lannister conspiracies.

Even before Cat decoded the letter to tell Ned just how dire the warning was, Ned had already deduced precisely where the Lannister threat came from: the Lannisters.

“My clever lord!” Cat cried. “However did you determine it so quickly?”

“It is because I am well educated to how untrustworthy the Lannisters are,” Ned explained. “One of my earliest lessons as a boy from my old maester covered that family well, with the first and most important lesson thus—the Lannister lyin’.”

Ned squinted his eyes in a flinty way, and gave a slow knowing nod to acknowledge his self-awareness of his keen eye for the situation. Cat swooned. She was so lucky, so lucky indeed, to marry a man as honorable as he was smart.

**TO BE CONTINUED IN: The Starks of Winterfell**


	2. THE STARKS OF WINTERFELL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King Robert's procession makes it to Wintersmell--er, Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of testosterone in this chapter. All the men really stepped up to carry the plot, now that we've really reached the show's plot in earnest.

_i. Homecoming_

“You got fat!” King Robert crowed in greeting to Ned, who was standing in front of his neatly lined up family as they greeted the royal procession in Winterfell’s courtyard.

In response, Ned raised an honorable eyebrow, and Robert guffawed. This was why Ned had always been his favorite. Even during Robert’s boyhood, people had been so intimidated by his manly awesome warriorness that none had been willing to risk rising his ire. Not Ned. No, Ned was a master of zingers, like that eyebrow zing. Such a burn, from such an icy man!

Robert clapped Ned into a manly hug, his chops thoroughly busted, but his heart lightened to see that Ned was still the same as always.

Then, Robert turned his attention to Ned’s family. His really big family.

He greeted Ned’s wife informally and warmly with her nickname, to show all those watching how close they were, and then pulled her in to kiss her cheek. During the kiss, he licked her face. His suspicions were confirmed, and indeed he knew why Ned had gotten so many children on her. If there was one thing Robert knew, it was women, and he could tell this one was a fertile one.

Next, Robert patted the smallest one on the head—but only on the top, as he knew the boy had some tragic affliction that he didn’t want his royal person to catch.

“It’s been nine years,” Robert said to Ned. “Why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been? Everyone knows that everything’s better when it’s Nedder.”

“I’ve been guarding the North for you, Your Grace. You know, the North, the kingdom with the cold…Nedther.” Once Robert finished laughing so hard he wheezed and a little bit of pee probably drizzled out—that Ned! Such a clown!—Ned continued, “Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

Just when Robert was about to clapback with a really smarting remark about now owning Ned’s family home and charging him rent for it, Robert’s heartless harpy of a wife deigned to slink out of her wheelhouse like the sinister serpent she was, always ruining his fun. To ruin her fun back, before she could draw too much attention he started loudly greeting the rest of Ned’s children.

He shook hands with Ned’s heir, declaring, “You must be Robb. Who sought to _rob_ me of my name.”

Robb Stark’s face stayed very still, but his eyes did naked calculating and his mouth started to mouth letters, as though he was confirming the spellings of their names—so, Robert supposed Robb Stark’s face wasn’t actually very still at all. Seeing a signature Stark burn coming—and he could take it from the father, but not the son—Robert quickly turned to the next Starkling instead.

“You’re a pretty one,” he said to the tall girl with the red hair, barely giving her a glance. After all, Robert knew women, and they always liked being called pretty—except for the Venomous Gorgon, of course, but you can’t please everyone.

There were two more Starklings left, both of roughly the same height. Robert examined the first, but from his tall height all he could see was the top of a child’s head and so he couldn’t tell if it was the boy or the girl. “Your name is?”

“Arya,” it said in a child’s voice.

Robert nodded at her, confirming that her answer was correct, and that he had only been testing her. So that everyone would be extra sure that Robert had known all along which one was the boy, he ordered the last Starkling to show off his muscles. After all, everyone knew girls didn’t have muscles—and Robert had seen a great many girls in their altogether, so he knew that better than most.

By this point, Robert’s conniving cankersore of a wife had finally meandered over to them, meaning it was time for Robert to make an escape.

“Ned!” he declared. “Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects.”

Cersei protested, but Robert just ignored her and stole Ned away before that barnacle queen could try to sink her hooks into him and turn him against Robert—not that someone as honorable as Ned could ever be turned.

As Robert and Ned walked down the nondescript subterranean walkway to the Stark Family Cryptatorim, Robert filled in Ned on Jon Errand’s death (strangely, Ned kept leaving off the “d” from Errand’s name—must have been his northern broguesish roguish accent).

Overwhelmed with his affection for the other man, Robert blurted out, “I need you, Ned.” Then, he quickly covered by asking Ned to be his hand, and do all of the work running the kingdom while Robert farted around brothels and feasts. When Ned didn’t jump at the chance—rather, he kneeled instead—Robert decided to sweeten the deal by proposing a marriage between his son and Ned’s tall daughter.

Robert turned away from Ned to give him time to decide, and said turning brought him face to face with dear Lyanna’s statue. Lyanna, so beautiful and wild and fierce—certainly she would have gone on hunts with him and let him sleep in and not nagged him to do work like the golden shrew.

Lyanna had such beautiful Stark grey eyes, just like Ned. Robert stroked Lyanna’s statue from cheek to chin. She had that enchanting long face, also shared with her brother. And such… What could Robert say? Starks were exquisite. He never felt more at home than with a Stark by his side.

By giving his son a Stark girl, it was certainly the best present the spoiled brat could possibly ever receive. Lyanna had made him want to be a better man; without her, he had stopped giving a damn about anything other than the hedonistic pleasures that he should have been sharing with her! So, certainly a Stark maiden would make his own son a better man—the best kingly shortcut to parenting he’d ever seen.

Good King Robert was clearly a wise ruler.

_ii. Fishing for Complements_

The feast was bright and colorful, but Jon Snow’s bleak, stark Stark features were better for gloomier pastimes, like hitting a bag of sand with a sword over and over again.

His fierce yet dreary combat was interrupted by a waist-height figure emerging in the dark, carrying a drink.

“Are you of proper drinking age for that?” Jon asked.

The figure walked into the light, and revealed himself to be Lord Tyrion Lannister, the queen’s mascot.

“Sorry, m’lord. I thought you were Arya sneaking stiff drink again.”

“Does she drink a lot?”

“To the bottom of her tankard,” Jon said, unable to hide a hint of his pride. “But you are clearly not her because your voice is deeper and you also look like the queen’s Lord Tyrion Lannister, so I think you are Lord Tyrion Lannister.”

“And you are Ned Stark’s bastard,” Lord Lannister said.

Jon drew himself up in rage, “What? I’m no fish shite!”

“What?”

“You’re the one who called me the turd of a bass!”

Lord Tyrion chuckled and raised his hands in a placating gesture, “No, I did not intend to call you fish feces. I was referring to your parentage.” He took a moment to search his huge vocabulary for a way to pronounce ‘bastard’ with proper stress on the syllables. “Bastard,” he finally said, leaning hard on the ‘a’ vowels.

“Oh,” Jon Snow said. “Bass-turd. You should have said so.” He then prickled in offence. “Lord Stark is my father.”

“And Lady Stark is not your mother, making you a bastard.”

Jon clenched his fists. He may not have liked Lady Stark, but he would not abide this wanton disrespect for her. “I’ll have you know the Tully sigil is a,” he slowed his voice down, as if he were speaking to Rickon during one of his insensible fits, “troooooooouuuut. Not a bass. Show some respect to your hosts.”

Oblivious to Jon’s rage—which in retrospect wasn’t that surprising, considering the Lannister smelled like he’d been bathing in a Ye Olde Medieval Jersey Turnpike—Lord Tyrion staggered closer to Jon and said, in a tone denoting he thought himself pronouncing a grave wisdom, “Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not.”

Instead of responding, Jon stared at him in incredulity.

Doubling down, Lord Tyrion slurred, “Wear it like armor. And it can never be used to hurt you.”

“The hell do you know about being a bassturd?” Jon asked.

“I’ve read many, many books including dictionaries and diaries. And also, all dwarves are bastards in their fathers’ eyes.”

Jon gave a mocking scoff. “You mean to say your father is a giant?”

“Well, he is Tywin Lannister.”

“How big is he then? Let’s do a mathematic. If the average eye is the size of a man’s thumb-tip, and the average man is sixty thumb-tips high, so you would be like thirty thumbs so your father would have a thirty-thumb big eye, meaning your father’s size would be thirty times sixty, so he must be…” Jon did mental math. “A great big many thumbs.”

Lord Tyrion stared blankly. He stared at his wineskin, and then took an exceptionally large swig. “What?” he asked.

But before Jon could slow things down and walk Lord Tyrion through the math, the air was pierced by a mournful howl.

“OOoooooooooOOoouuuuUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!”

“What was that?” the little Lannister yelped, looking this way and that as though he thought they were under attack.

“Don’t worry, my lord. You’re safe. He’s locked up tight.”

“What manner of beast is it?” the lord asked.

Jon blinked sadly. “My brother Rickon.” To Lord Tyrion’s unasked question, he answered, “The rumors, sadly, are true. He’s a werewolf.”

_iii. A Music of the Night Interlude_

Rickon Stark scratched his pink, stubby, toddler fingers on the heavily barred door to his bedroom and yowled. “Let me OOoooooooooOOoouuuuUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!”

He could hear the servants moving outside the door, but none made any motion to release him. With a sob, he gave up and flung himself onto the pile of straw that served as his bed. He wiped his eyes and nose before the tears and snot could dry out his delicate pink skin. It was no fair that he was a werewolf and so had to miss all of the fun.

_iv. The Downfall_

A great many days into the king’s visit to Winterfell, a great many strange things happened all in one greatly strange day.

Firstly, one Sansa Stark hid herself with her dress from the feast, attempting to launder it herself to see if it could be salvaged. Alas, it could not—the food that Arya had thrown on it at the feast was just too food like and staining.

But, the queen had complimented the dress, so Sansa could not simply discard it to the peasants and servants! The queen might think that it was Sansa commenting her thoughts on what the queen’s approval meant to her. And the queen’s approval meant so much more than that to her!

So, while everyone was out on a hunt, she balled up the dress and crept to the stables near the old broken tower, her only accomplice her beloved direwolf, lady. These stables were the ones cleaned at the lowest frequency. She tossed the dress on top of a smaller pile of manure, used a pitch fork to cover it with hay, then quickly was on her merry way.

With the crisis taken control of, her cool Stark intellect gave her emotions space to breathe, and she felt RAGE. Stupid Arya ruining everything, ruining the dress she’d worked so hard on, ruining it so badly that Sansa had to go in the stinky stables—what was Hodor feeding those horses?! To vent her frustration, as Sansa walked past the old broken tower, she gave it a ladylike kick, and then she rushed back to the castle so that she could go pine away in a high window like she was supposed to.

As soon as she left, she didn’t realize that Lady didn’t follow. Rather, she dove into the dung heap and pulled out her mistresses’ dress. As Lady trotted it out, Bran’s still-yet-to-be-named direwolf spotted her and jumped into the action, snatching the dress by a sleeve. Their tug of war attracted Nymeria and Shaggy Dog, and soon four direwolves each had a corner of the dress. They pulled with all their might.

Behind them, the tower still shook.

_iv. pt 2.The Downfall Part Two, the Downfalling_

Jaime Lannister, barely wearing breeches, looked to his equally disheveled sister for guidance as he held on to the spying coitus-interruptusing Starkling by the shirt. Just when he was about to pull the child into the window and to safety—Jaime was a father of three himself, and had always gotten along well with children—there was a mighty bang, and the tower shook.

The shaking jarred the child’s shirt loose from Jaime’s hand, and—after a wobbling moment where it looked like the child would catch the ledge, or at least stall enough for Jaime to grab him once more—sent the boy flying through the window.

“What was that? It sounded like a giant kicked the tower!” Cersei shrieked as she ran to join Jaime at the window.

They looked out the window and saw something nearly impossible to believe.

The Stark direwolves. They were dangerous. They were uncanny, supernaturally keen and intelligent. Between the wolves, they had stretched some kind of net and had caught the boy. Once he was lowered to the ground, the Lannister twins exchanged a look of dread.

“He knows! If he says something, Robert will kill us all!” Cersei said, pale from horror.

But the boy didn’t run for help. Instead, it was the strangest thing—he scampered right up the tower again.

“Pardon me,” he said as he perched on their windowsill and, before they could stop him, he leapt again shouting, “Weeeeeeee!”

Amazingly, no one heard him and he safely bounced at the direwolves’ net once more.

But on his third jump down, the Stark wolves finally miscalculated, pulling the net too tightly, and the boy bounced right off of it, landing in a stinky pile of manure.

The smell was so great—some of it went straight up his nostrils—that the boy immediately went into a coma.

Later that night, when smelling salts failed, Maester Luwin pronounced that the child might not ever wake up. Bran’s nose was simply too filled with livestock poop.

All of the Starks were very sad.

Ned Stark accepted Robert’s offer to be Hand of the King. One benefit was that Winterfell smelled like manure now, and this way he could at least save some of his children.

**TO BE CONTINUED IN: The Stark Family Vacation**


End file.
